The Wald (37 page)

The women took turns talking to him and a back-and-forth started. 
The questions and answers went long past midday.  Septimus let them talk, understanding just a little of what they said.  Better to let the women become at ease, the centurion thought.

When a lull came
at last, he said, “Now tell them we have come to broker peace with the great warlord, Adalbern.  Rome is tired of fighting, so we must find him.”

“Lord?” Stigr asked, shocked at what Septimus had said.

“Of course, Rome could fight these people forever.  You’ve seen our greatness along the Tiber.  But Tiberius himself wants to end the bloodshed.  It is best if these women believe that we are in a position of weakness so that they give us Adalbern’s location.  Now speak to them.  And remember, I’m not anyone’s lord.”

Stigr translated the message to the women.  One of them frowned, not believing what she heard.  The other
, a little more gullible, smiled and started talking animatedly.  Her friend quietly told her what could only be, “shut up,” but the chatting woman shushed her and continued on.  It would only take one to cooperate.

Stigr asked for clarification now and then while Septimus looked on, eager for an answer.  At last the servant turned to his temporary master.  “I know the place where he has gone.  It would be impossible t
o find unless you know where to look.  He meets the other tribal leaders who fight for freedom against Rome.”

“Rebel.  You mean, rebel against Rome.”

The servant frowned.  “Yes, I meant act in rebellion against Rome.”

The century moved out from the burned-out hovel that afternoon.  They brought the two women with them, allowing them to ride
while bound, sharing a pack horse.  They marched along a winding road north toward the Roman forts so Septimus felt safe, even if these women and the servant meant to set a trap.

He fo
rced the men to march all night so that the warlord had less of an opportunity to slip away.  By now the men knew their mission and went about it eagerly, though tiredly.

When the dawn was just several moments away, Stigr led the century up a
nother meandering path that took them up a short, wooded hill.  At the top, across a small, open area strewn with rocks and almost no grasses, they saw two spires of stone that looked outlandishly out of place but could have only been placed there by the gods, not man.  The pillars stood tall, forming a straight line from a narrow mountain.  In the dim light, it appeared to Septimus that the spires had once been a part of the mountain, but over time the spaces between them and the mountain had fallen away.

Stigr pointed, “We travel between that rock and the mountain onto a path that allows horses only in single file down to the meeting place.  We could stand at the top all day and not
see or hear the gathering, though they are directly below.”

Septimus considered the description.  “Single file?  So my men will be in a perfect position for ambush?”

Stigr surprised the centurion.  “Yes, they would.  But I think that you ought to leave your men up here to guard the entrance.  It is the only way in or out.  We go down with the women and negotiate with Adalbern.  If things go wrong, your men have the advantage of terrain.”

Septimus listened intently.  “Very well.  We’ll do as you say.”

“Oh, and there will be a lazy sentry on the other side of that rock.”

“Lazy?” asked the centurion.

“Yes, he’ll be sleeping because only the tribes know of this place.  They have no reason to fear an ambush.  You’ll understand when you see it.”

Septimus studied the servant.  “Stigr, if you are telling me the truth in all this, you are more than resigned.  You are a traitor.”

Stigr sighed quietly.  “Maybe so, but I mean to be victorious.”

The men quietly moved across the gravel bed to the spires
.  The sentry was exactly where Stigr said he would be.  He was dispatched with a single thrust of a knife.  Septimus’ men placed themselves so they might attack and succeed even if one thousand men tried to come up and out of the gorge.  Then with Septimus, on his army-issued horse, in the lead they descended down into the glen.  The pack horse ridden by the two women walked between those of the centurion and the servant.

The sun had just crested the horizon when the small party left the heights.  The gorge, however, was so narrow and deep that it remained dark as night
in its midst.  The air was moist and cool. Septimus shivered and he felt almost like he was back in the Cisalpine region of home.  His horse was well-bred, like the emperor himself.  It was also well-trained like every man of Augustus’ legions.  The beast carefully picked his hooves over the slick rocks that littered the steep path, cut into the side of the cliff.  Several times Septimus had to duck to the left as an outcropping that covered the path from above came low enough so he might crack his head.

The group had already
set the rules that no one would speak as they descended.  The women seemed willing to obey, still frightened from the sight of the dead sentry.  Septimus allowed his senses to see a little further, to hear a little more than they otherwise would to prepare for anything that might go awry.  He pushed the bit of fear for his life that crept into his heart out of his body as best he could.

When they reached the bottom
, the ground turned from stone to silty soil at first, then to the same soil covered in a soft carpet of lush moss.  Two more sentries slept at the side of the path.  Septimus was already next to them before the two parties noticed each other.  The men’s heads perked up when one of the horses huffed.  All Septimus did was hold a single finger to his lips saying, “Shhh.”  To his surprise the shocked men did as they were told.  They watched the small group ride past.

Stigr, at the back, said some hushed words to the sentries.  They remained just as quiet as he was in their replies.

“What did you tell them?” whispered Septimus when they had moved some feet past the guards.

“I told them to announce us as friends when we moved on.  We don’t want some eager Sugambrian to cut us down. 
The warlord’s boy, Berengar, might be in a mind to do that.  And it will prevent Adalbern from executing the guards for not warning of our approach.”

Septimus worried for a heartbeat, but thought there was logic in the man’s words.  Either way, they were committed to whatever played out in the gorge – be it death, be it life.

The guards’ voices shouted out behind them just as the first rays of light began filtering through the canopy of leaves over their heads.  At once, the forest around them sprang to life with blankets covered in leaves shoved aside to reveal men, who moments ago had lain sleeping, grasping for weapons.  The sentries continued their assuring call.  The mob of tribesmen relaxed.  A few even pointed and spoke to one another in wide-eyed amazement.  Septimus assumed it was because a lone Roman soldier had been mad enough to ride into their hostile camp.

. . .

Ermin and Berengar had fallen asleep in an ale-induced haze the night before, so neither could decide whether it was the hangover talking or a real man when they were awakened to shouts that a friendly Roman came in peace.  Both decided that it was a dream when the calls also said that the man brought a pair of Sugambrian women and Stigr.  Stigr, they asked themselves?  He left years ago.  Each of them grabbed his respective covering and rolled over, trying to lie as close to the smoldering fire as they could without catching ablaze.

Then other men’s voices rang out in their hidden gorge saying the same thing.  Ermin poked a single eye open and saw over a root that sprung from the mossy forest floor and through the winding smoke of the fire that Berengar
crinkled his face in an attempt to wake.  Ermin frowned while smacking his lips together doing all he could to coax some saliva into his dry mouth.  “I just dreamt we had a Roman visitor in our hidden camp,” said Ermin.

Berengar shot up
, already drawing Roman sword.  “Me too,” he said.  They scanned the dim forest and saw that other men were stirring.  Some walked, others ran toward the central meeting place with its logs placed for sitting.  “We’d better go.”

The young men shoved their way through the throng.  Berengar was swearing to the gods, taking after his father in that regard.  He was already taller than most grown men and he saw something ahead he did not like.  But Ermin’s friend wasn’t panicking, only cursing.  Ermin, still not into his teens, only came to most men’s shoulders.  He did not see anything, so all he could do was stay
in the big Sugambrian’s wake.

“Move,” said Berengar as he jostled into a Cattan guard, deeply scarred from years of battling the Romans.  “Ermin and Berengar coming through.”

The hardened Cattan gave them a wicked stare with his one good eye.  “You’d do better by saying you’re the sons of Segimer and Adalbern – real men who’ve made names for themselves.  No one knows little Ermin and his tall playmate, Berengar.”

Berengar rapped the man on his good eye with the heel of his palm.  He struck the
Cattan so hard that he felt the eyeball pop.  The man went down like a rock.  Ermin shouted to him, “You will know our names after we defeat Rome in the coming battle.”  Ermin finished by spitting on him.  “That will teach you to respect Ermin the Cheruscan and his tribal brother, not playmate, Berengar the Sugambrian.”

Ermin made a step after Berengar toward the meeting place, but ran into his friend’s back.  Berengar said, “Ermin
, our names will be lost to history.  There will be no songs about us.”

The Cheruscan pushed beside Berengar.  “What are you talking about?”  He looked up at his friend’s face
, which had whitened.

“Because there will be no battle with Rome.”  Berengar slapped Ermin in the chest and pointed to the center of the meeting area.

Ermin saw a brown and white horse, upon which sat a simply dressed Roman.  The man had neither a saddle nor a uniform so he must be a commoner, thought Ermin.  He looked at the man’s face and recognized it.  Stigr?  What happened to him?  Where was his beard?  Where was his hair?

To the right of Stigr was another horse with one black ear and one grey.  On its back sat two Sugambrian women.  He could tell they were of Berengar’s tribe because of their dress.  He thought he recognized them from Berengar’s own tiny hamlet in the wald.
  They appeared to be in fine condition with no bruises.  They were unbound and sitting on a coarse brown blanket.

The reins of their horse were held by a Roman centurion.  He could tell it was a centurion from the transverse crest on his helmet that seemed to shine even in the dark of the valley.  He sat in a four-cornered saddle made of wood and leather in the traditional Roman way.  Strapped at his s
ide were his gladius and knife.  He made no move toward them.  If he had, one hundred javelins would have pierced his armor simultaneously.  The centurion had many medallions hanging over top of his chainmail cuirass, proving that his commanders or the emperor thought he was courageous.

Ermin was about to ask why one traitor, two Sugambrian women, and one crazed centurion
bent on an ignoble death accidentally falling into their secret meeting place meant that there would be no battle with Tiberius.  Then the tail whip of the centurion’s horse caught his eye.  The tail slapped around and hit the centurion’s leg.  Several strands of the hair caught there for a moment.  The strands were a bright white.  The entire tail was white.  The dock was white.  He blinked in astonishment as he examined the rear leg – the hock, even the back hooves – white.  Ermin found himself muttering, “By Teiwaz,” as he had heard Adalbern do a thousand times before.  The flank, barrel, foreleg, pastern, withers, mane, poll, forelock, cheek, and muzzle – all of it, the entire beast – were white.  Somehow, the gods saw fit to send them a pure white horse as a sign to sue for peace with the Romans.

. . .

Septimus had immediately handed control of the horse the female captives rode to the Sugambrian boy they called Berengar who he had fought so much over the years. Now the boy was turning into a man.  The centurion slid out of his saddle and tossed his horse’s reins to Stigr.  “Tie our horses off nearby and return.  My German is only so good.”  Stigr bowed at the neck and turned through the crowd.

When everyone was situated in the meeting place
, Adalbern was hard for Septimus to miss.  Even after years of living at barely a subsistence level, the man was a mountain.  “The women tell me that they were beaten over the head,” barked Adalbern as he sat on a rotting, wet log across from the centurion.  “They are from my own village.  I’ll not tolerate it!”

Through Stigr, Septimus surprised the tribesmen by answering, “Yes
, they were.  I have been sent to find you, Lord Adalbern, and I thought information from them would be my greatest opportunity.”

“Of course they were!” spewed Adalbern.  “They are silly women who had their heads cracked.
  They probably thought that by talking they’d avoid a rape.”  Then he shook his head, adding, “I’d have done the same if I meant to find someone.  Now what do you want, centurion?  It had better be good.  Our best hiding place is now ruined.”

“I was sent to find only you
, Adalbern, but it seems that there are other tribes here as well.  I ought to know to whom I speak.  I am Septimus, centurion in a legion of Tiberius, general and commander of the forces of the Rhenus and beyond, son of the Emperor Augustus.”